


Dinner with Her Godparents

by MissMollyBloom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Godparent!Lock, Precocious Child, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 00:16:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8468500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMollyBloom/pseuds/MissMollyBloom
Summary: 8 year old Rosie Watson has some questions for her Godparents - Sherlock and Molly - the first of which, why have they been pretending for so long that they're not in love when it's so obvious to everyone - especially her.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally started writing this fic before s4 - but now I want to revisit it. I've made a few changes to make it more (or less) in line with season 4 - and also made Rosie younger than in the previous version. 
> 
> More to come soon - I hope!

Rosie Watson was sitting on one side of the dining table in Baker Street, Sherlock was at the other, and the scattered remnants of sumptuous shepherds pie and Yorkshire puddings lay discarded between them. This was their ritual - something she had done for as long as she can remember - spending the first Friday of every month having dinner with her Godfather.

She had grown up hearing all the the stories from her dad about how Sherlock used to keep body parts in the freezer, or how he would conduct experiments on this very table.  
And at least once every year, dad would recite the story about how Sherlock once drank tea that had accidentally been flavoured by an addition of a burnt eye-socket.

But despite all these legends about the “toxic waste dump” that 221B Baker Street used to be, in Rosie's experience Sherlock’s home had always been immaculate.

But of course, for as long as she can remember Sherlock hadn’t been alone.

Rosie's Godmother was busying herself in the kitchen preparing tea. As she placed the cups before the seated pair, Rosie caught an odd unspoken gesture pass between them.

“What is it?” She asked.

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock responded, too quickly to fool anyone - the least of all a precocious eight-year-old who had been trained since birth in the art of deduction.

“It’s not nothing!” Molly protested as she sat down next to Sherlock. “But it’s nothing to worry about,” she explained to Rosie.

“Then what’s going on?” Rosie persisted.

“It’s just your Godfather and I, um…” Molly paused, her words failing her.

“We’re going to get married.” Sherlock blurted out. There was a pause as both of her Godparents awaited her response.

“It’s about time,” she said, nonplussed.

They looked at her, mouths agape. “What?”

“Well, you have been in love with each other for years,” she said with the casual air of confidence that could only come from someone so young.

“How did you-” Molly began, searching for any answers in Sherlock's face. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. 

Rosie stirred her tea, ignoring the distress of her Godparents “Everybody says you’ve been in love since before I was born.”

“Yes.” Sherlock said.

“Well - not quite.” Molly countered.

That got Rosie's wrapped attention. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a long story,” Molly said, standing up and motioning to the couch, “you’d better get comfortable.”


	2. Chapter 2

Rosie Watson’s birth, like most things related to Sherlock and his loved ones, was a moment of high-drama. There was never any chance for a simple, routine labour, or even a calm, planned Cesarean. Not where Sherlock was concerned.

Of course, it wasn’t entirely Sherlock’s fault. Mary did have to go into labour while they were in the middle of a case.

Of course they had to be on the other side of London at the time.

Of course it had to be in the middle of the night.

Of course there wouldn’t be a cab in sight.

Of course Sherlock would have to hotwire a car.

Of course Mary’s contractions would come on much faster than most first-time labours.

Of course Sherlock would have to pull over in a tunnel five kilometres from their goal, after unearthly screams from Mary and the panicked voice of John who said, “Bloody Hell, I think I feel the head”.

Of course John would be the one to bring his daughter safely into the world.

Of course the ambulance would arrive two minutes after Rosie did.

There was one thing Sherlock could say after witnessing the so-called miracle of birth firsthand. It was the messiest, bloodiest, most disgusting business he’d ever been a part of.

But so much more rewarding, he thought, as he saw the proud parents ushered into the ambulance.

Sherlock stayed behind as John and Mary went to get checked out at the hospital. He had to explain to the local constabulatory why the car in his possession wasn’t his own, and how it had come to be started without keys.

“Really, it’s the manufacturer’s fault. If they wanted their cars not to be stolen, they should invest in technology that even a simpleton like yourself couldn’t hack.”

Sherlock didn’t see Lestrate giving the cut-it-out sign until it was too late. Sherlock was slapped with a court appearance notice – one he’d make sure got swiftly forwarded to  
Mycroft when he had the chance.

All sorted at the scene, Lestrate gave Sherlock a lift to the hospital.

The men waited at the door to the room until the Watsons – family as they were now – acknowledged them.

“Come in!” Mary beamed, a sleeping baby in her arms.

John walked to the door, greeting both men in a three-way hug.

“Come and meet out daughter,” John ushered them into the room., "She doesn't have a name yet," he whispered conspiratorially to the men with a nod to Mary, a hint at the many many arguments the couple had had over something so small yet so important.

Sherlock had heard rumours about newborns, that biologically humans had been programmed to consider them adorable, cute and worthy of love – otherwise why would they put up with the squalling, mewling, the vomit and the detritus that they came with.

He’d heard the theory, but this little, as-yet-unnamed Watson was the only one he’d had the chance to see in reality. She really was gorgeous. Blonde hair and round face like her mother, but with a determination in her eyes even after mere minutes of life that could only come from having John Watson as her father.

So small – the sign on the door had read 6lbs – it was amazing that all the potential of her life – her future, the plans, her goals, the woman she would one day grow into, was all contained in this little creature. Sherlock wouldn’t admit it, but it took his breath away.

“Baby girl,” Mary cooed into the tiny face of her daughter, “This is Uncle Sherlock. He’s your Godfather.” She said as she passed the baby into Sherlock’s arms. He’d never held a child before.

“If you’ve chosen this git as a Godfather, I’d hope you’ve chosen a much more reliable Godmother,” Lestrade laughed. “He’s lucky he wasn’t arrested tonight.”

John placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Of course we have.”

As if on cue, Molly Hooper arrived, large over-stuffed teddy bear and bouquet of bring pink balloons in tow. When Sherlock asked her later how she was able to source such things at 4am in the morning she simply smiled and said, “I know a guy.”

Placing her gifts in the corner of the room, she gave John a hug, placed a gentle kiss on Mary’s head before coming over to peer at the small form still sleeping in Sherlock’s arms.

“Hello precious little one. I’m Aunty Molly. I’ll be your Godmother.”

Sherlock and Molly made their exit not much later. It was only as the two of them were talking down the hallway together that Sherlock realised it was the first time he had seen her since that afternoon at Bart’s when, panicked, he’d rushed into the lab, desperate to see that she was alive, unharmed, unscathed.

And then, just as quickly, rushed back out again – without a word of explanation for his behaviour.

“So, dinner?” he asked into the awkward silence between them.

“Sherlock, it’s 4:30 in the morning!”

“Then breakfast then?”

Molly smiled the sweetest, saddest smile he’d ever seen her give. “Maybe some other time.”

The wounds in their relationship were still raw. It was going to take some time.

  
____________________________________________

 

“So, that’s when you first met me,” Rosie began, “but, that’s not where the story starts. I mean, you’d been in love for years before I was born.”

“Not quite,” Sherlock said, an awkwardness in his tone that Molly caught.

“We’d worked together for years, but we weren’t really even friends,” Molly explained.

Sherlock turned to Molly, eyes wide with shock, “I thought we were.”

“Really?” Molly laughed, but her mirth evaporated when she saw how truly hurt he had been.

“I gave you my mobile number when we first met,“ he offered.

“That was to keep you updated on your experiments.”

“I would take you out for dinner.”

“You would interrupt my dinners at Bart’s caf, and shamelessly flirt with me until I gave you what you wanted.”

Rosie giggled.

“Not like that!” Molly said in her best stern Godmother voice. “Information, supplies, body parts.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrow at Rosie, making her giggle again.

“Stop it!” she batted him on the arm. "Tell her it wasn’t like that!"

“Ok,” he said, his face an unconvincing mask of seriousness over barely restrained laughter.

Turning to Rosie conspiratorially, he said, “Did I ever tell you about the time I surprised her in the middle of the night in the lab and told her that I needed her?” his tone a mock-whisper.

“Really?” Rosie sat bolt-upright.

“He needed me to help him fake his death,” Molly explained.

“Oh. So tell me when it all really started then.”

Sherlock and Molly exchanged a glance, then said in unison. “At your parents wedding.”

“Now, this I have to hear!” Rosie exclaimed, shuffling excitedly into the well-warn armchair that was once her father's favourite.

\----------

Molly couldn’t just watch Sherlock leave John and Mary’s wedding without saying something. Not when she had seen his tight-lipped smile, the way his eyes scanned the room like a swimmer lost at sea, desperate for anyone, anything to cling to for safety.

Sherlock was drowning in the emotion of the day, the people, and Molly was the only one who could see him. The only one who had ever seen him.

“I just need some air,” she yelled at Tom over the music. He nodded, continuing to dance with Mrs Hudson who was quite agile for a woman with a bung hip.

Within a moment Molly had caught up with him, the sound of dancing, singing and mirth fading into the background as they stood at the edge of the carpark, the orange glow of the streetlights turning the colours an unearthly, unnatural hue.

“Where do you think you’re going?” She called after him in a tone more hurt and angry than she had planned.

He stopped, although he didn’t turn to face her when he said simply, “Home.”

“But, you can’t.”

That made him turn, his eyes narrowing as he asked her, “And why not, Molly? Can you think of any way my being there will improve things? Any way my presence isn’t anything more than a ghost at the feast?”

He turned to leave but she reached out, taking one of his hands and placing it between hers. It was a tender gesture, perhaps the most tender moment they had shared since the afternoon in the hallway after the day of cases together when he had bid his farewell to her, and to her former feelings for him, wishing her and Tom all the happiness in the world.

For a moment they stood still, the world refusing to revolve, while both felt the other’s pulse rising.

“Molly, what the hell are you doing?”

It was Tom, come to check on the welfare of his finance, instead finding altogether different.

Molly dropped Sherlock’s hand, she Sherlock, sensing the tension that had been rising between the two, and the inevitable quarrel that was to follow, turned to leave.

“Oi, Sherlock, you’re not going anywhere,” Tom’s few glasses of champagne had emboldened him beyond his usual mild-mannered persona. “I’ve got a few words to say to you.”

“Please Tom, don’t,” said Molly, absolutely mortified.

“Oh, I see how it is, this one can make an hour-long speech like a crazed lunatic, but I make one wrong guess and raise my voice just a little and _**I’m**_ the embarrassment?”

“Look, I really have to go, Tom, and you and Molly have some more dancing to do.”

“No, mate, Molly and I won’t be doing any more dancing, or anything,”

“Tom?”

“You still love him, don’t you?” Molly went to say something but Tom cut her off, “I’d have to be blind not to see it. You wear your heart on your sleeve Molly, it’s what made me love you so much, but it’s also why I can’t marry you.”

Molly nodded. She knew it was over, not when Tom embarrassed her, but before that, when Sherlock was baring his soul – such that he could – in front of John and Mary’s assembled well-wishers, and the weight of the ring on her finger felt all too heavy for her to handle.

“This really is something you should settle between the two of you, it really doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

“But it does, Sherlock. It has everything to do with you. Can’t you see? She’ll never love anyone else – it’s always going to be you.”

 ---------

 “That was the moment,” Sherlock said to Rosie.

“The moment of what?”

“The moment I realised that I couldn’t be alone anymore. That it was too late. I would have Molly at my side, whether I wanted it or not – and in that moment, I began to realise that I wanted her there, too.”

“So that’s when you fell in love?”

Sherlock laughed, Molly couldn’t help laughing too.

“What’s so funny?”

“Well, love’s a complicated thing,” Molly explained, patting her goddaughter gently on the shoulder.

“So what happened next?”

Molly and Sherlock exchanged a look, one loaded with meaning, one that told a story that they didn't want to share, of a night of wordless passion just two days after the Watson nuptials, when Sherlock, searching for something to distract him from not only the Magnussen case, but the rising, itching temptation towards the drug dens what seemed to be calling out to him ever since he theorised one possibility to get the media magnate's attention. Such was the force of his demons that even the mere idea of using again had Sherlock's heart racing and the pleasure centres in his brain itching for just one sweet release.

Which was how he ended up, at least for one night, pouring all his pain and pleasure into passion.

No, that certainly wasn't a story for pre-teen ears to hear. So Sherlock skipped ahead a few weeks.

“Well, then after that, Your Godmother slapped me in the face.”

Rosie's eyes went wide with shock. “Why?"

Molly, who wished Sherlock had skipped just a little bit further into the future asked, “Yes, Sherlock, care to explain why?”

This left Sherlock in a state of mild confusion – how could one explain to an impressionable teenager about recreational drug use without giving her an impression which would no doubt lead to John’s rescinding Sherlock’s access to Rosie for the term of his natural life.

“Um-“ was all that he could manage.

 


End file.
